


Our Particular Devil

by Lono



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Rebecca - Freeform, daphne du maurier - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-16
Updated: 2014-08-11
Packaged: 2017-12-29 13:22:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1005930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lono/pseuds/Lono
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His wife died more than a year before I met him. Though she lies quiet in her grave, she still haunts us in a myriad of ways. (Rebecca AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Past Still Too Close

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dietplainlite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dietplainlite/gifts).



> Disclaimer: Sherlock is the creation of property of others; Rebecca was written by Daphne du Maurier and belongs to her estate. No infringement intended. Story and chapter titles are excerpted from or inspired by the novel.
> 
> Note: This is a prompt fill for the fantastic dietplainlite/soyeahso. She requested an adaptation of Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca. It’s such a dark, exquisite story and I truly appreciate her giving me the opportunity to retell it in a new way using characters we love.
> 
> Just to serve as a warning for those unfamiliar with it, I am trying to model this fic after the book as closely as possible. That includes the POV, which is first person. Also, the reader never learns the second Mrs. De Winter’s name, so just know that my omission of Molly’s name throughout is intentional.
> 
> I hope everyone enjoys this first installment!

 

* * *

**Prologue**

* * *

 

Last night I dreamt I went to Briarvale again.

I knew I was dreaming, but still I rushed up the winding lane, eager to see its familiar façade. Hardly taking in the sight of overblown flowers and dying leaves that carpeted my path, I listened to my eager breaths and the cadence of my steps. I moved with the singular purpose of a person who knows that what she’s seeing is not real, but only holds it that much more dearly as a consequence.

On and on, the ground stretched before me, without Briarvale in sight. The anticipation built, and the dread. But I wasn’t unhappy.

After what could have been seconds or hours, the dense brambles and trees cleared, and there it was. It stretched up impressively before me, perhaps fortified and exaggerated by my recollection, perhaps diminished. But it seemed that time had not changed it significantly. Though its grey, stone walls were covered in woodbine and ivy, they still held the shape of my memory, of when he and I belonged there.

They say you can never go home again, and never was that truer than with Briarvale.

 

* * *

**Chapter One: A Past Still Too Close**

* * *

_Isle of Capri, 1935_

“No one is here this time of year. What a mistake,” Ms. Constance Prince muttered to me as she hurried us through the hotel lobby.

It should be mentioned that more than one hundred guests likely occupied the hotel during our stay that autumn. When Ms. Prince said ‘no one’, what she really meant was ‘no one of importance’. The commoner hardly counted.

Biting my lip, I tried not to laugh as a thought flitted into my mind that I was almost like a child’s imaginary friend to her. I fell well within her definition of ‘no one’ and she made sure to remind me of it often, yet I still had the dubious pleasure of listening to her complaints and gossip.

By her definition of society, though, it was true. Even on an island renowned for its posh offerings, the latter months of the year could hardly be described as impetus for social gatherings. Capri had lost its summer bustle weeks before Ms. Prince and I disembarked from our ship onto its docks. Though a few oranges and lemons still dotted the trees that lined our funicular ride up the steep shoreline, they were sad, desiccated husks of their former selves.  I wondered idly if that was how the haute crowd knew it was time to retreat. When their morning serving of juice didn’t have quite the same, sweet bite, did they turn to their maids and valets and instruct them to start packing up the steamer trunks?

In my daydreaming, I nearly ran into Ms. Prince’s back when she drew to a stop in the doorway of the breakfast room. She somehow managed to glare at my ill grace and turn to start whispering excitedly in the same breath.

“Do you see that man sitting at the back, corner table?” She tried to look indifferent, but her head kept craning to peer at the stranger over her shoulder.

My eyes flicked in the direction of her unsubtle stare to see that the gentleman in question had most certainly noted our spectacle. Looking away quickly, I made a show of looking out at the view of the Mediterranean Sea that the windows afforded. Under my breath, I replied, “I see him. Is he someone you know?”

The rolling of Ms. Prince’s eyes told me exactly what she thought of my ignorance. “Of course I know him. It’s Sherlock Holmes. Of Briarvale?” Though I recognized the name of the famous, English estate, my awareness ended there. At my clueless stare, she huffed. “He’s worth millions. He’s considered something of a recluse. Of course, who could blame him? His wife died last year and everyone says he’s still inconsolable over it.”

My eyes darted back to the austere man disinterestedly stirring the contents of a bone china cup. In spite of the ice-chip silver of his eyes and the alabaster of his skin, I could think of no way to describe him other than dark. It was like a miasma that loomed over him. What I couldn’t tell was whether it was grief or the stare of my employer that had his face glowering so.

Just as my eyes swept over him again, his snapped back to our direction and his gaze locked with mine. I felt heat crawl up over the curve of my cheeks for my rudeness and I quickly turned back to Ms. Prince.  “I believe the maître d’hôtel is wishing to seat us, Ms. Prince,” I whispered.

She blithely turned to the man who’d sidled up beside her, an expectant look on his face. The waiter shot me a look of disdain for so rudely drawing attention to my employer’s distraction; that the members of the Upper Class were never wrong was a lesson that was coming rather slowly to me, though my livelihood depended on realizing it.

Fortunately, Ms. Prince merely nodded graciously at him and allowed him to escort her to a table on the other side of the dining room from Mr. Holmes. The solicitous way with which our guide pulled out a chair for Ms. Prince before hurrying away only reinforced my gaucheness, and I wished desperately to be back in my room with a book, or down on the beach. Anywhere but there, really. 

Quietly I sat, listening to Ms. Prince discuss the vagaries of Italian fashion. I nodded accommodatingly when she requested that I make an appointment for a dressmaker to visit her. She talked on and on, and I tried not to be too obvious in tracking the sun’s trek across the sky.

As Ms. Prince segued into a critique of my wardrobe, I made sure to meet her eyes periodically and make interested noises. Beyond that, I tuned her out. It was nothing new, after all.  Her voice blurred into a drone.  She prided herself on her fashion sense and often regaled me with stories of woebegone individuals who’d still be wearing poor-quality fabrics, unflattering cuts, and garish colors were it not for her expertise. From what I could tell, the person who’d borne the brunt of her efforts was her own brother, Kenneth Prince. Of course Mr. Prince didn’t voice any complaints to me, but the side effect of being the imaginary friend/paid companion was that one saw what was often intended to remain private. 

The room filled with people eager to break their fasts.  We outstayed several parties, but I couldn’t help but notice that one person did not exit the room. The whole time there, I felt his presence, a piqued interest tickling the back of my neck.

When I could not stand it any longer, I dared look over to Mr. Holmes’ table once more. His face had resumed its bored hauteur and we might have never imposed on his notice. He was an arresting man, I could feely acknowledge to myself. His face had a pronunciation to it that could be described as either odd or utterly handsome, and the watery sunlight coming through the breakfast room complimented him, casting shadows on the ridges and hollows of his cheeks.

Perhaps he felt my stare again, or maybe he had merely finished his breakfast, but Mr. Holmes rose from the table and looked at me as he skirted around the table. This time, along with an eyebrow quirking in challenge, the corner of his mouth kicked up in a smirk.  I choked on a sip of tea, astounded by the lengths of my own rudeness. In the tradition of an embarrassed person caught doing something she oughtn’t, I decided I didn’t care for him; especially when the sound of an amused snort reached me from across the room.

“Quickly, return to our suite and get me my last letter from Kenneth; the one with the photograph of our father,” Ms. Prince hissed at me. “It’s in the roll top desk under the window.”  I groped for my water glass, desperate to ease the spasms in my throat as I turned back to face her. She appeared to be oblivious to the interaction that Mr. Holmes and I had just shared, though she was watching him sharply. “I am going to go speak to him.”

Without thinking, I croaked, “I think Mr. Holmes’ sense of dress is just fine. No need to advise him on it.”

She stared at me stonily, and I stood quickly, the chair scraping obtrusively on the tile as I shoved it away with the backs of my knees. “Be back in a moment,” I muttered.

Social climbing as a sport Ms. Prince had perfected in her youth. Never married, she whiled away her time going from party to party, always hungry to arrive at the next, stylish scene at just the right moment. She’d overshot her target on this trip, but it would appear that she was working to make amends to herself. If she wanted me to fetch something while she gazed with avarice at the retreating back of Sherlock Holmes, it could only mean she needed proof of connection and had him in her sights.

Feeling a low level of dread, I hurried back through the lobby. I kept my gaze down, lest I spot the man who was about to be party to any number of uncomfortable minutes at the hands of my employer.

The letter was exactly where Ms. Prince advertised it to be. I allowed myself a silent but vehement curse. I’d hoped it would miraculously be missing. That plan dashed, some illogical, desperate corner of my brain began devising ways to slow my return downstairs. I could fling myself from the window, but we were housed on the fifth floor of the hotel. I didn’t care to die; I just wanted to delay things temporarily.

I dithered a few minutes longer, and then began the trip back down to the lobby. In a minor fit of rebellion, I did take the stairs instead of the lift. Trudging the entire way, I pictured the scene that awaited me below: Ms. Prince cornering Mr. Holmes in the sitting room, his eyes wild as he looked about desperately for any means of escape. First, she would tell him that she knew his mother or uncle or family dog, and then she’d slyly tell him that he really ought to incorporate more aubergine in his wardrobe. She’d round it out with her coup de grace: a push for an invitation to his home, Briarvale.

In the year that I’d been her companion, I had seen her tactics work with varying degrees of success. Something—a sardonic, knowing smirk—told me this would not be one of those successes.

When I reached the hotel foyer, I felt a second wind inspire me to move more quickly toward the sitting area. Perhaps I could mitigate the worst of it? I could already see that I was partially right on the setting. Mr. Holmes had retreated to a chair by a large fireplace. The intermittent rain that had fallen had the staff feeding the fire since our arrival.  Though the chair nearest to his had originally been situated across a low, wide table, Ms. Prince had hauled it over so that she could sit alongside the rather reluctant-looking gentleman.

His face redolent with distaste, Mr. Holmes looked through furrowed, annoyed brows at Ms. Prince, who was chattering away obliviously. I reached the pair in time to hear her exclaim, “I was ever so pleased to see you were on holiday here. It gives us a chance to discuss the _on dit_ without worry of offending certain members of our class.” I winced as she reached forward and hit Mr. Holmes on the arm in a familiar, chummy way, laughing loudly.

His lip curled. “I can’t say I’ve ever set any store by gossip. Was there something in particular you needed, Ms. Prince?”

She sobered, attempting a wizened look. “No, gossip is a vile business, isn’t it? It’ll only drag you down. If I find myself getting too wrapped up in it, I try to spend my time in reflection and self-betterment whenever I can find a spare moment.”

“Other obligations must keep you rather busy,” Mr. Holmes suggested blandly.

I hadn’t yet announced my arrival, but the hysterical giggle I suppressed at this must have made some sound, for his silvery eyes flicked to me before languidly returning to the older woman.

Ms. Prince slurped at a coffee as she nodded, missing the barbed insult. “Oh, yes. My diary is a full one. But I can’t complain, when I get to claim the company of amiable people like you.”

Granted, I had only known of Sherlock Holmes’ existence for the past two-and-a-half hours by this point, but I felt positive that ‘amiable’ was not a word one could rightly use to describe the man. He looked like he agreed, if the vaguely queasy expression that overtook his face was any hint.

Finally noticing my presence, Ms. Prince offhandedly introduced me even as she held an imperious hand out for the letter currently clutched in my fingers. I didn’t want to relinquish it, sorry to lose even that small, paper shield. Reluctantly, though, I handed it over.  While she made a show of opening the letter, Mr. Holmes watched me impassively as I sank resignedly into a chair across the table from their tête-à-tête.

“I have a surprise for you, Mr. Holmes,” Ms. Prince chortled.

“I doubt it.” His tone was falsely bright and I stared furiously at my clasped fingers, warring between laughing at him and trying to remind myself that I should have some loyalty to my employer.

As ever, though, she missed the tone and standoffishness from the man to her left, and she thrust the letter’s enclosed photograph at him.  He stared at it for several beats before huffing an aggrieved breath and taking it from her.  Glancing at the glossy paper, he murmured, “Film, not a photographic plate. But older. Your father, most likely.  What of it?”

It astounded me that someone could be so rude without that rudeness’ recipient noticing. Perhaps Ms. Prince was just a good actress, but the guileless way she carried on had me thinking she truly existed in a state of ignorant bliss.  “Right you are, Mr. Holmes! Mr. Archibald Prince, Esquire. I believe he served with your father in the first Boer War. To think, we have such rich history linking us.” He twitched at her absurdity, but for once refrained from commenting. Not that he would have had time, as she was blundering on.  “My father made his way to Briarvale on more than one occasion and spoke at length of its beauty and warmth.”

And so we’d arrived at the angling-for-an-invitation portion of our morning.

Instead of launching into raptures about his family seat, Mr. Holmes merely shrugged disinterestedly. “Perhaps.”

“Do you entertain guests often, Mr. Holmes?” she simpered.

“Not if I can help it,” was his blunt reply.

Ms. Prince blinked at him, finally coming to a slight epiphany. But as soon as the arrested realization hit her, she was shaking it off with a gay laugh. “Oh, you. What a card! I’ve heard that Briarvale played host to any number of grand, lavish parties until just last yea—“ she cut off abruptly, but by that point it was far too late, and she had clearly realized it.

His eyes sharpened and he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands under his chin, as he looked her over derisively.  “Do you want to know why I stopped entertaining, Ms. Prince?” He spoke lowly, but the sting in his tone had me shrinking back against my chair. “I no longer invite prying eyes like yours onto my property, providing titillation and gossip fodder—yes, gossip—for your ilk. I don’t relish being made a spectacle, and I don’t invite it into my home.”

Ms. Prince opened her mouth; to placate or defend herself, I couldn’t say, for he continued on. “I particularly won’t be inviting you, Ms. Prince. Your very demeanor speaks of the insecurity that has you foisting your insufferable personality on unwilling participants.”

I started to object, but he was caught up in his own diatribe. “So insufferable that the only companion you can find is one you hire.”  He flicked a furious glare toward me before turning back to a beet-red Constance Prince. “A mouse who must have been in very dire straights, indeed, to take employment with you. Tell me,” he addressed me for the first time, “were you destitute or only very nearly when this peahen took you under her wing and made you dependent on her snide grandiosity?”

“That’s not—“ I started.

“You clearly are above normal intelligence. The volume of ink stains speaks of an avid reader, and yet you are but a glorified servant, dragged around and unappreciated. You’re too shy and accommodating to say anything. And she’s made you into exactly what she wanted: a paid keeper who can’t even speak for herself.”

“Enough,” I said, louder than I’d actually intended.  A few passersby stopped and stared, but I ignored them as I stared down the horrible man in front of me.  “Ms. Prince,” I said, without turning to look at the flustered woman. “Why don’t you go upstairs? You’re not looking well.”

It wasn’t even a lie. She’d started sweating and had gone grey in the middle of Mr. Holmes’ rant, and she wasn’t looking at all soothed now that he’d stopped speaking Shakily, she nodded and rose, hurrying off without a backwards glance.

I am still not sure what stores of bravery had me staring him down, but I refused to blink.  “Mr. Holmes, you had no right.” He began to speak, but I shook my head. “No, you’ve said your piece. You’ve said such horrible things. I have yet to see evidence that you ever say anything but.  However, believe me when I say that Ms. Prince may be rude and she may be ridiculous, but she, nor I, deserved your cruelty.”  Standing, I leaned across the low table and took the photograph still held between his index and middle fingers. “I believe you’ve accomplished what you set out to achieve, and I’ll leave you to your pressing schedule of dressing down other hotel guests. Good day.”

I hurried away, too angry to wait for the lift, only eager to escape his gaze, which I felt burning the back of my neck. As I pounded up the stairs, I couldn’t tell if my hammering heartbeat was from anger or from exertion, but I had my suspicions as to which deserved the credit. Finally reaching the fifth floor, I stood outside our suite for several moments, trying to calm myself. Finally, with a deep breath, I let myself into Ms. Prince’s and my suite of rooms.

Ensconced back in my tiny bedroom, I couldn’t hear any noise from my employer. I knew she wouldn’t accept any comfort from me, so I left her to herself. Picking up my book, I tried to focus on its pages; however, my mind was mostly given to the events of the morning.  If I were lucky, I would never have to see Sherlock Holmes again. But would that be enough? I wondered if I’d be able to recover from the ignominy of the ordeal until Ms. Prince and I had left the hotel, left Capri, left Italy; preferably, until we’d left the entire continent.  Perhaps autumn was a good time for an African safari? But how to convince my employer?

My thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the suite door. When Ms. Prince showed no inclination to answer the beckoning taps, I hurried across the lounge and pulled open the heavy wood. A young woman stood on the other side. Though I’d never fooled anyone into thinking I was a member of the elite, she still offered me a perfunctory curtsy as she held out a salver with a letter on it.

“I’m afraid Ms. Prince is indisposed at the moment. Is there a message I can pass on to—”

The maid shook her head, cutting me off.  “This is for you, ma’am.”

I blinked, confused. I knew very few people who would have any interest in corresponding with me, so I was at a loss as the nature of this letter. True, it was just a folded piece of paper with my name and room number scrawled on it, but that only served to confuse me more. Within the microcosm of our hotel, that number whittled down to zero.

I nodded my thanks to the maid and took the paper, frowning at the unfamiliar handwriting.  Unfolding it, I didn’t know what to expect, but I was taken aback by the words within.

_Forgive me._

_-Sherlock Holmes_

I stared at the scrawl for several moments before the maid clearing her throat tore my attention away.   “Do you have any reply?” she asked. I shook my head and closed the door as she turned away. 

I felt conflicted. Though pretty words could be bandied about with alacrity, I somehow doubted that Mr. Holmes was the sort to overuse them. I hardly knew him, but instinct told me he was sincere. What reason could he have to seek me out with an apology? I could think of no way that it would be self-serving. He’d made it clear he knew I had little to offer social climbers or fortune seekers. 

The day wore on and I did not leave the room again.

* * *

Ms. Prince fell ill two days later. She refused to leave the suite in the time leading up to her sickness. Though her flagging energy had to have lent itself to her confinement, I knew she had been deeply hurt and offended by Sherlock Holmes. I tried to pass on his apology, but she would hear nothing of it, and within forty-eight hours she was so under the weather I decided not to press the issue.  I spent the next three days tending to her, though she only deteriorated. A doctor was summoned, but he merely recommended rest and weak tea for her stomach complaints.

The suite became stifling, but I stayed close, an unwitting nursemaid.  Although I had an avid interest in medicine and pathology, I was very much out of my element. When delirium and fever set in, Ms. Prince’s doctor suggested a full-time nurse take over her care, and I was only too glad to agree.

Nearly seventy-two hours after I’d last stepped outside, I made my way downstairs, fastening my drab coat as I anticipated a brisk walk along the shore. I was so intent on the stiff buttons that I didn’t notice the other person making his way down the stairs until I nearly ran headlong into him. When I realized whom I’d run into, I could only be glad I hadn’t succeeded in breaking his legs or head. 

He must have been leaving as well, for he wore a long, camel coat, driving cap, and gloves. He greeted me carefully, not quite meeting my eyes. “One your way out?” he asked casually.  I nodded wordlessly, still torn between remaining angry and forgiving him. As I f he’d read my thoughts, he cleared his throat uneasily. “I trust you received my note?”

“Yes,” I murmured, only more uncertain now that he actually wanted to discuss it.

“I was in earnest,” he said in a rush. “I hope you know now that I regret it. I lost my temper needlessly.”

Pulling on some light gloves, I frowned as I pushed my fingers into the designated sleeves. “I’m not the only one to whom you owe an apology, Mr. Holmes.”

He nodded solemnly, if uncomfortably. “I will extend my apologies to Ms. Prince when she is adequately convalesced.”

“How did you know she’s ill?”

He might have started to roll his eyes, but he cut it short, so I didn’t draw attention to it. Clearly, he operated on various levels of irascibility and I could only hope for the lowest on a good day.  “You have the pallor of a person who’s been inside too long, but clearly you haven’t been ill yourself,” he scoffed.

“Clearly,” I parroted, dismayed.

“It would stand to reason that you’ve been tending to Ms. Prince, as I have not seen either of you at any meals since our last interaction.” He clasped his own hands behind his back as we stepped down the final steps into the lobby.  We came to a stop facing each other only somewhat awkwardly.

“Yes, she appears to have a severe stomach complaint. She’s quite ill,” I explained. He nodded. I nearly smirked when I noticed he couldn’t quite manage any sympathetic noises on the unhappy news, but I sternly schooled my expression.  “Where are you off to?” I asked him, not managing the breezy tone I’d hoped to affect.

“A drive around the island. I brought my automobile with me and have only had occasion to take it out twice since my arrival.

I managed not to get sucked into a flight of fancy imagining him driving through the crisp day, a breeze ruffling the neatly trimmed hair that still managed to curl over his ears. But I did allow myself the admission that he could make the sport of driving quite aesthetically pleasing.

When I realized that we’d stood there for nearly thirty seconds  without speaking, I coughed delicately and offered him a small smile. “Well, I’d best not keep you. Enjoy your drive, Mr. Holmes.”

“And you, your walk,” he returned.

I nodded my thanks and made my way to the concierge, intent on leaving a message with the desk, lest Ms. Prince wonder where I’d gone.

Mr. Holmes’ voice carried across the lobby, calling me by name and stopping my progress. I turned abruptly to see him standing in front of the door staring at me with an inscrutable expression.  His haughty brow rose when our eyes finally met, but he didn’t say anything else.  Still, when he pushed the hotel’s front door open (nearly whacking the doorman installed outside for just that purpose), I can’t describe his look as anything other than expectant.

Sometimes I wonder what nerve I found that allowed me to do it.  I’d always been such a shy, awkward thing and, with thanks to our few, short interactions, he knew it all too well; he’d exposed it with gusto. Though he’d apologized for his rudeness, it didn’t negate his awareness of my diffidence.

At that moment, however, I did not spare my nerves any thought. Without a word, I turned and followed Sherlock Holmes out of the hotel and into his waiting car.

* * *

**...**

* * *


	2. Precipitous and Hollow

* * *

The Isle of Capri was a resort destination even at the height of the Roman Republic. The Beau Monde of the British Empire might have liked to claim its popularity as their idea, but the history of the island outdated even the arrival of the Romans in England.

During my time riding in Mr. Holmes’ car through Capri’s narrow, cobblestoned streets, however, I could see just how much the island was trying to cater to tourism. As we puttered along, shopkeepers thrust cordials of limoncello at us through the automobile windows, calling after us in enthusiastic Italian.  It wasn’t a reflection of authentic Italian living, I was well aware, but it was hard not to match my mood to their keenness. I tried to be subtle. My companion was aloof and quiet, and I hesitated each time I felt a smile curving my lips, worried he would think me even more gauche than before (if that were possible). Apparently, I needn’t have worried, for he made no comment when I failed in my efforts to keep an impartial façade.

In fact, we had not spoken much since we rolled away from the hotel’s portico. Though our entire meeting was marked by his ability to run off at the mouth, he was an inconstant personality. His quietness was strange contrast to my earlier impression of him. But I couldn’t help but notice that, while he remained quiet, he shifted his shoulders with ill-contained energy.

We finally left from the teeming city center of Capri itself, and shops and houses alike became sparse. I looked around us, watching the grasses sway in the wind, imagining that I could hear their rustling even over the putter of Mr. Holmes’ car. When my imagination only allowed so much illusory detail, I could not stand the silence any longer. I shifted on the warm leather of the car’s bench seat. “Why are you in Capri, Mr. Holmes? Holiday-making?”

He flicked his glance at me before returning it to the road, though there was little traffic requiring his navigation. “An extended holiday, yes. I had some business in Rome at the beginning of the month, but I found myself uneager to return to England.”

“Do you not like our home country?” I asked.

Shrugging, he pulled the wheel, turning us onto an open country road that seemed to climb to the highest point of the island.  “I have a man of business who can run my estate, and my mother and brother are both on travels of their own. It seemed this was as good a time as any to take in some exotic coastal air. I haven’t travelled since before my wife…. For a long time.”

His wife. I didn’t even know her name yet, and yet I felt already like she was a ghost; a specter that made Mr. Holmes’ brow shadowed and his jaw twitch. He must miss her very much, I thought, feeling a strange stab of grief and envy. Not necessarily for the late Mrs. Holmes, but for the fact that I often was struck with the melancholy of realization that I’d not be missed by many. I had a few friends growing up, but none with whom I’d kept careful contact after the death of my parents.

“How did your wife die?” I asked, suddenly wanting to know something of this woman whose life I could envy without ever having met her.

For a moment, I thought Mr. Holmes wouldn’t respond. He stared out ahead at the worn, dirt road, navigating around potholes and large stones in the motorway. “She was in an accident while touring Persia. She made it back to Briarvale, but died shortly after,” he finally murmured.

“Oh, I am so sorry,” I rushed to say. “What a terrible loss.” He glanced at me again, and then pulled his car over to the side of the road.

Immediately, I felt cowed. I’d managed to make yet another misstep. Now Mr. Holmes would turn the car around, drive us back to the hotel, and deposit me without ceremony in front of the scowling bellhops, telling me never to speak to him again. I didn’t even have the decency to let him grieve in peace, and our strange, new companionship was to come to an end before I’d even figured out why he’d taken the time to invite me on this drive.

But then he did something that I wasn’t expecting. He reached over and hovered his hand over mine where it lay, my fingers worrying the seam of my dowdy skirt. I stared at his leather glove, afraid to glance at his face, unsure what his compulsion was to reach for me. To tell me my words were appreciated? To assure me that he understood my intent? Or, least likely of all, to seek _comfort_?

But then, as quickly as it had started, the moment was over. He pulled his hand away, shut off the engine, and climbed out of the car, shutting the door behind him without a backward glance. I watched him stride across the road, yanking his gloves from his hands and stuffing them into his coat pockets, the camel material flapping in the wind as he moved to look out over the Tyrrhenian Sea. The road gave way to an almost sheer drop, and I felt a sudden fear for the man before me. A stray gust of wind or a slight hop could send him over. Suddenly, I felt like I was looking at a Brontë hero, broodingly surveying a Yorkshire moor, not the Amalfi coast.

Try as I might, I’d never had much patience for those heroes.

“Mr. Holmes,” I called desperately, scrambling to open my door. “I am sorry for my unforgivable prying. If you’d like, we can return to the hotel now.”

The cool breeze stripped past me, forcing me to gather my skirt in one hand and hold my hat to my head with the other.  I stood there, peering at my companion as I waited for him to tell me he either forgave me or wished that I to get myself to a nunnery. But I had no certainty that he would do either. Was I to interpret his every stony expression and just hope that my response was the right one? Or was I not to respond at all?

Finally, though he stepped down from the low stone he’d climbed on. His expression was impassive as he picked his way over rocks towards me. When our eyes met, though, he smirked. “Come along. It’s nearly teatime. Let’s do return to lower ground before your ridiculous hat decides to make a daring escape.”

Immediately, my hands flew up to the worn straw, forgetting about the plight of my other clothes. “What’s ridiculous about it?”

Mr. Holmes arched an eyebrow. “Nothing. Your grandmother must have been very proud of it.”

I opened my mouth to say that she had actually tried to talk me out of taking it, but I then recalled that I had not actually told him of my hat’s origins. “How did you know this was my grandmother’s?”

He studied my head, which I ducked under his scrutiny. “Surely it wasn’t made in this century. The discoloration alone would have told me that, but that particular three-story weave was popular with American milliners in the 1880s. Your diction indicates a fully English upbringing, but a few words and turns of phrase in your vocabulary are distinctly colonial. They are too few to be learned from a constant guardian, so it stands to reason that you learned them from a grandparent. Let me guess: she was going to throw it away and you absconded with it, instead.”

“I like it,” I mumbled defensively. It was becoming clear that I would have few secrets around Sherlock Holmes. He’d so far said nothing so offensive as on the morning of our first meeting, but I didn’t fool myself into believing that he was a changed man for the dressing down I gave him. He was likely just being his version of polite. “Where did you learn to do that?”

“Do what?” he asked as he opened the car door for me.

 I peered up at him from under the brim of my hat. “Where did you learn to tell peoples’ entire life stories just by looking at them? It’s astounding.”

“’Astounding’ isn’t the word most would use to describe it. As you well know, it’s not exactly an endearing ability at times.” He closed my door and skirted around the car to the other side.

Smiling weakly, I watched as he climbed behind the wheel. As he shot his cuffs and adjusted his own hat, I offered, “Still, it must be useful.”

Mr. Holmes shrugged. “Quite. I like to solve problems, and I learned at a young age that by observing my surroundings, I was able to make logical deductions about what might cause certain traits, certain affectations, and certain particulates on an object or person.”

“Like someone’s speech patterns.”

“Just so,” he nodded. “I’ve made a career for myself using these skills. I consult on cases that require more than just ham-fisted police work or private detection, and in return, they have the satisfaction of knowing my findings are accurate.”

“Are you ever wrong?” I asked.

He lifted his head loftily. “I’m never wrong.” At my clear incredulity, his expression wrinkled into a scowl. “Well, rarely then.”

Satisfied, I returned my gaze out the windscreen. I could see the white scrolls of our hotel, burning orange in the oncoming sunset. A twinge of regret had my hands clenching. This had been such a strange afternoon, but I was sad to see it end. Sherlock Holmes must have been very bored, indeed, to ask me along on his drive. I couldn’t necessarily say I’d enjoyed his company, but I certainly hadn’t been unhappy in it, either.

As we slowed to a stop in front of the hotel, Mr. Holmes allowed the car to idle as we both stared through the glass doors into the lobby, cheerfully lit though there was still early evening light outside. People milled around, already dressed for dinner in spite of the early hour. At the bar, guests chatted and laughed. A man nearly fell from his stool as he went out of his way to light a nearby woman’s cigarette.  Even over the turning engine of the car and through the panes of glass, I could hear piano, chatter, and laughter.

I felt exhausted just watching them.

“How I hate it,” Mr. Holmes muttered.

I could only nod in agreement. But it then occurred to me that he might be waiting for me to exit the car. Turning, I made to offer my thanks, but I found him studying me, and I nervously fidgeted with my skirt’s side seam again.

“Why _are_ you working for Ms. Prince?” he asked suddenly.

Uncomfortable though it was to recall Mr. Holmes’ and my first meeting, I couldn’t quite quell the slight annoyance at him. “I believe you already know the answer to that. Didn’t you just tell me you’re never wrong?”

“Money wasn’t your only motivation, was it? But how can that be? That woman is a nightma—”

“A _handful_ ,” I corrected. He snorted, unwilling to agree with my character assessment of Ms. Prince. I once again looked into the gathering party in the hotel. Sighing, I decided, _Why not?_  “My father passed away only a year ago, and I had to sell our house to settle his medical debts.  I was not left with much; certainly not enough to live off of for more than year.”

“And you gave up your university studies as a result.” He wasn’t asking. His simply _knowing_ hurt more than I thought possible. It was hard to be stripped bare by an assessing glance.

I shifted uncomfortably. “My interests lay more in the sciences. Cambridge isn’t too keen to allow women much beyond its Fine Arts halls. I didn’t care to get a teaching certificate or even a mere diploma where men can get a degree, so it was likely a waste of money, anyway.”

“I’ve seen my fondest hopes decay,” Mr. Holmes murmured as we watched the heretofore absent doorman, currently standing by the front desk, spot us and hurry toward the beveled glass doors. The man paused when my companion raised a staying hand, indicating that we’d like another moment.

I frowned. “I beg your pardon?”

“It’s just a poem. Thomas Moore,” Holmes explained.  “But, again, we’ve agreed that money wasn’t your only concern.”

 _Agreed._ I nearly laughed. Such an amiable word for his telling me of my life’s folly. “No, it wasn’t my only concern. As you so succinctly put it, I could have easily gotten a job as a shop girl or a governess. I could have spent hours a day sticking needles into my fingertips in a shirtwaist factory if those jobs had fallen through. But none of them would have changed my view of gray, sooty, London bricks. If I am to spend my life in the service of others, at least I can see the world as I do so.  I’ve always wanted an adventure.”

At this, Mr. Holmes gave a low chuckle before he opened his door and swung out of the car, tossing his key to the doorman as he came around to my side. I looked up at him, not sure whether his laugh was derisive or, worse, pitying. He pulled open the door and held out his hand to me. “In my experience, adventures aren’t nearly what they’re cracked up to be.”

Feeling defensive, though I knew we were about to issue our farewells, I couldn’t help but bristle. “Says the man who needs no money but assists police on criminal investigations, nonetheless; who takes virtual strangers on long drives around exotic islands, and who quotes poetry about decaying hope.” I thought about batting his fingers aside, but I decided it would be petty, and I allowed him to pull me up and away from the leather seat.

We stood there, under the hotel portico, hardly noticing a bellhop jumping behind the wheel and zipping away. Mr. Holmes’ prior smirk had slid from his face, but he didn’t look mad, merely surprised by my words. It was only when I turned to leave several moments later—mumbling an embarrassed goodbye and thanks—that I realized we were still holding hands.

I pulled my hand away from his, feeling the scrape of his calluses across my skin. Neither of us had put our gloves back on after our stop on the cliff edge. Hurrying away, I didn’t glance back, afraid he’d see the heat on my face and ears. Afraid he’d see the way I traced my own fingers across my palm, worrying and hoping that he’d seared a scar of the sensation onto my skin.

As I climbed the stairs (some day I might actually have the patience to wait for the lift, but today was not that day), I told myself to be done with it all; to be done with my strange, new onset of mooning over Sherlock Holmes. I had almost convinced myself of my success when I reached the correct floor.

Letting myself into Ms. Prince’s suite, I offered a shaky smile to the nurse who was just exiting the master bedroom.  “How is she?” I asked.

The other woman shook her head. “No better. Worse, if anything. She has been ill the entire afternoon and has not been able to retain any food. I am hoping for a break in her condition tonight, but if it doesn’t happen, we will need to summon the doctor again.”

I nodded, alarmed. Hurrying across the lounge, I tapped on the door and let myself into the room when only a murmured response greeted me.  Ms. Prince’s grayish pallor had deepened in my time away. Though I prided myself on my knowledge of anatomy and some medical remedies, I could not identify what would cause such a sudden decline in her health.

“Ms. Prince, I am so sorry to see that you’re still ill. Is there anything I can do for you?”

She coughed and shook her head weakly even as she held out a hand toward a tray of tea and water. I assisted her in drinking from a teacup and then set to fluffing up her pillows. “What did you do today while you were out of my company?” she croaked.

I very nearly described my strange afternoon, but just before the words passed my lips, I decided that she might not find any _joie de vivre_ to hear of my nearly-inappropriate foray with the man who’d so neatly cut her down four days prior.

Instead, I shrugged my shoulders and replied, “I explored the island a little.”

Ms. Prince grunted in acknowledgment and asked me to read to her from a ladies’ magazine that rested on the bedside table. I did so, reciting descriptions of the latest trends in fabrics and dress cuts as she burrowed further into her blankets. Finally, she drifted off to sleep, and I quickly tidied the room as best I could before the nurse returned from her dinner break. I had half a mind to eat something, myself, though I didn’t care to go down to the dining room. I could only hope the suite’s small breakfast area had some repast. As I moved to turn off some of the table lamps about the sitting room before going in search of food, I noticed the letter on top of the desk under the window.

Frowning, I wondered if the nurse had received it and not bothered to inform me. I was worried it might be a telegram from Ms. Prince’s brother, but was only somewhat surprised (or possibly only surprised by just how _unsurprised_ I actually was) to see my own name scrawled in a print that was quickly becoming familiar. I unfolded the paper, looking around guiltily, as if Ms. Prince might jump out from behind a settee and accuse me of mutiny. But the only sound to fill the room was the rustle of the hotel stationary and the ticking of the mantle clock.

I was not sure which was stronger: the urge to frown anxiously or the urge to smile at the words that greeted me:

_Please join me after luncheon tomorrow for a drive about the island?_

_\-- Sherlock Holmes_

Though I was not sure whether to feel glad or nervous, I rang down to the front desk and asked them to send a message to Mr. Sherlock Holmes’ room. The desk clerk asked me to clarify that I truly only meant to send a message containing only one word, but I assured him that he’d heard me correctly.

_Yes._

* * *

 

_**...**  
_

* * *

_  
_


	3. Blotting Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Hello everyone. Thank you so much to everyone who's follow, favorited, kudos'd, and reviewed this little homage. I hope you all enjoy this chapter!
> 
> Special thanks to dietplainlite for, well, being dietplainlite, and thanks to artbylexie (Amalia Kensington 'round here) for various and sundry things. At at this specific juncture, for her help with some character quandaries that will be relevant later in the story. I am ever so grateful.

* * *

I found the book wedged underneath the bench seat of his automobile eight days later.

We were preparing to return to the hotel from what had become our daily, afternoon drive, but Mr. Holmes first wanted to inspect some moss on a nearby rock. Content to let him do his exploring, I took the time to close my eyes and enjoy the warmth of the sun on my face, not bothering to worry for my complexion.

Idly, I kicked my feet, feeling a daring contentment even though my afternoon jaunt with the colorful Mr. Holmes was nearing its end for yet another day. So far, he’d shown no indication that he wished to end our forays out onto the island, but I was too shy to ask him if he was actually enjoying my company.

I reasoned with myself that he’d quit asking me to join him if he didn’t, but it was hard to tell with him. It was entirely possible he just liked the symmetry of having two passengers in his car. He could be oddly particular about some things while not thinking twice about others. Just the day before, he and I had stopped at a shop for cappuccino. He’d officiously sent a cup back to the kitchens because it wasn’t clean, and then had promptly placed a muddy, slime-covered coin in the fresh replacement that they’d brought him.

“For safe keeping,” he’d explained to me.  He hadn’t appreciated my laughter at that and had bristled with righteous indignation. “This slime could very well be toxic, I’ll have you know.”  

Which had only made me laugh harder. “Good thing you’ve contained it in an open teacup, then,” I’d replied, nearly choking on the foam of my coffee.  Perhaps I was misinterpreting his expression, but I believe his lips had actually kicked up a little as I tried to contain myself.

Sitting there in his car the following afternoon, I fought off lazy sleep and slid my eyes open to watch him crouch over a rock. I couldn’t quite stop the smile as I saw him pull out a small magnifying glass and stoop even closer to examine something of fascination.

He was a ridiculous, unwittingly charming man. And if I happened to carry a similar magnifier in my handbag, well, then, he and I simply understood each other.

I kicked my feet again, and felt my foot jostle something loose on the floor of the car. Worried that I’d somehow broken something, I bent over and fished my hand in between the springs of the seat and eventually, my hand closed around something that was very clearly leather-bound.

Pulling it out, I frowned at the book in my hand.  _The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore._

I can’t say what it was that had guilt ticking at the back of my neck as I flipped it open. Perhaps it was because I vaguely remembered Mr. Holmes quoting a Moore poem just one week earlier. This must have been something of value to him if he’d memorized its contents. Whatever the case, it had me glancing up to ascertain that Mr. Holmes was still caught up in his specimen study as I carefully opened the book cover.

The handwriting was sophisticated and feminine, so different from my nearly-illegible chicken scratch.  Strange, that. Even in what turned out to be early days, the disparity stood out to me.

 _Shers,_  
Thank you for dinner.   
Irene x

Something whispered to me that I should snap the book closed again and stow it back under the car seat. But, still, I held it. It might have been more reasonable if I had continued to thumb through the soft pages and perused the poetry. But no. I sat there, stock-still, staring at that message.

It could have been from anyone. It was entirely possible that Sherlock had a sister or beloved cousin named Irene.

But I knew he didn’t. Somehow, without being told, I knew this was his dead wife’s handwriting, and these were intimate words meant for him. It most certainly was not meant for a gawking interloper puttering around an Italian island with this woman’s widower.

“Ah,” Mr. Holmes’ voice said, startling me into fumbling and dropping the book. It landed between my feet with a dull thunk. I jerked around to look at him. He stood at my door, looking down at me with his hands in his coat pockets.

“I wasn’t trying to pry,” I burst out before he could say anything else.

His face was its usual, cool mask. I couldn’t tell if he was angry or simply regarding me to see what I’d do next.

Which, naturally, had me scrambling and babbling. “I accidentally jostled it. It was under the seat and I was just looking at what I’d kicked. I’m sorry!”

He was silent to the point that I nearly tried to flee the car and run away, but just as my hand moved to the door latch, he answered, “There’s nothing to forgive.”

Relaxing only minutely, I laughed nervously. “I’m just glad it wasn’t raining. I’d have hated to have damaged it with wet feet!”

He looked back out over the coastline, his eyes narrowed against the bright sunlight. “Have you been to the Gardens of Augustus yet?” he asked briskly instead of making further comment on the awkward interlude.

I shook my head.

“Shall we pay a visit now? I hear the views are remarkable and the flowers to die for.” His inflection on ‘to die for’ indicated just what he thought of such bombastic praise, but the wry tilt of his mouth had me smiling cautiously in return.

Willing to follow his lead in not discussing the book further, I nodded and he climbed back into the car.  As we wove our way along, I studied him.

“What?” he asked, not taking his eyes from the winding road.

To this day, I am not sure how I found my honesty or even my forwardness. ““I would be sitting in a hotel room, uselessly watching other people nurse my employer if it weren’t for you. I’m glad I met you, Mr. Holmes,” I explained shyly.

At first, he looked startled by my admission, that someone would not only willingly spend time with him, but then that she should admit affection for him. Miraculously, his stern mouth curved again. And even when he turned back to the road, he took the time to casually toss out, “You should call me Sherlock.”

Fighting a happy grin, I reintroduced myself with my first name, giving him permission to use it.

But even as he smirked and called me by my name, I couldn’t help but feel an unattractive envy that had no right to take root.

Irene Holmes had called her husband ‘Shers’.

And I had to call him Sherlock.

* * *

In the first week of my riding out with Sherlock, Connie Prince was alert, if weak. Though she was clearly feeling miserable, she asked me again about my goings-on when I wasn’t in the room. I muttered something about tennis lessons and she’d immediately lost interest.

But as the days progressed, her condition had not improved. In fact, the nurse and I were certain it had worsened, though the hotel’s doctor insisted otherwise. Soon, she’d been bedridden for over a fortnight. I only saw her in the evenings, continuing to read to her from magazines and newspapers when I wasn’t replacing damp cloths on her brow. I suspected that she heard very little of the meager distraction I offered her. Occasionally, she would shout incoherent things at me, but the nurse assured me it was likely just her fever talking. Though the nurse encouraged me to stay away from the room, I never feared for my own health.

My only diversion in the short time that followed was Sherlock. He and I would meet around luncheon, occasionally dining together before setting out.  Each time I’d think we would repeat some, previous trek, he had some new place in mind for us to visit. Though I did not think he did so out of any keen inclination to play tourist. Sometimes at night, when flights of fancy would take hold, I would allow myself to wonder if he might actually be trying to think of things that I would want to see.

It wasn’t that I was incurious about the island. Quite the opposite, in fact. I’d made a list of everything I’d hope to steal time to see long before Ms. Prince and I journeyed to Capri. But in the presence of the oftentimes-aloof Sherlock Holmes, I felt guilty, like a schoolgirl buying time at the end of each day by suggesting something new for our next outing. In an effort not to make a nuisance of myself to him, I’d stopped asking him what we could visit each upcoming tomorrow. Though my heart had begun to ache whenever I thought of never seeing him again, I was certain that he would soon tell me his plans to quit the island. To quit me.

As a preemptive measure, I tried to embody the erudition that surely he must expect of his companions. Though I lacked the social graces or the  _savoir-faire_  to tamp down all of my guilelessness, it was a matter of pride for me. And though he must have seen through my unpracticed façade, Sherlock never commented. He merely puttered along in his car, with me at his side, to visit each place on my list.

There were times when I was certain he was trying not to laugh at me, like his smiles might be mocking or insincere. Once, I let slip that I wished for a way to record every impression of the island, every view of the sea (and though I’d not said it aloud, every memory of Sherlock) into a bottle; something I could uncork on a whim whenever I wanted recall this nearly magical time.

We were sitting in a tiny rowboat, and I watched the roll of his shoulders as he pulled the oars through the choppy waves. The sun was intermittent that afternoon and autumn was making itself known through colder weather and shorter days. The light was watery like the sea around us, but I relished the crisp air as I tugged my jumper tighter around me.

“What do you wish to bottle most?” he’d asked, his tone distracted as he pulled up along a large rock outcropping a little bit offshore.

“This moment,” I finally managed to answer shyly.

“Why?”

I tugged at the cuff of my blouse. “Because I’m not likely have such a friend once I leave Capri. Perhaps if I were staid and elegant like the other guests at our hotel, I’d find such things easier.”

“If you were like that, you wouldn’t be here.”

“Because that repels you?”

“If you like. But more to the point, you’d want nothing to do with me, either.”

I watched him, slowly breathing in the salt spray.  “That wouldn’t happen,” I finally said, my tone insistent.

He looked back at me in consideration, his mouth opening as if he were about to broach something important before his gaze flicked over my shoulder. Whatever he’d been about say was forgotten, and his only reply was an instruction as he busied himself with holstering the oars. “Lean back.”

Craning my neck to look behind me, my eyes widened in alarm as he aimed the bow for a small hole in the rocks, its apex not even two feet above the top of the boat. I complied with Sherlock’s command, though it was more out of fear of concussion than any blind acceptance. Even when I was nearly flat on the bottom of the rowboat, I had to fight the impulse to duck my head as we nosed into the dark beyond. Ahead of me, I saw Sherlock lie back, as well, but not before he reached up with both hands and grabbed onto a thick rope bolted to the rock face, which he used it to pull us further in.

 It led into the shadows, and I remember watching the cords of twine as they passed above my face and feeling the small twinge of excitement, an inkling of where we were, but I stayed quiet.

And then we were out of the narrow passage and in an enormous cavern. It was dark after the bright light of late afternoon and my eyes struggled to adjust.

“The Blue Grotto.” Sherlock’s voice startled me, though he’d not shouted. The sounds of waves, crying gulls, and wind had quieted as we entered the cavern, and all that remained were the faint noises of lapping water and the creaking of the oars, which Sherlock had gripped again once we’d straightened back up.

My mouth widened into a grin as I looked around. “It’s not as blue as I’d been led to expect.”

“You are certainly the impatient one,” Sherlock sniffed, though it failed to cow me.

“For making a casual observation?” I countered.

“An impulsive observation with little time taken to familiarize yourself with your surroundings,” he said as he finally stopped rowing when we’d reached the center of the cave.  “But to answer your fervent complaints,”—I rolled my eyes—“we have to wait for the light to be just right.”

“Which will be when?”

“So impatient,” he muttered, though he didn’t actually sound put out. Quite the opposite, in fact. “I believe we need only wait a few minutes for the current cloud cover to dissipate.”

He was right, of course.  Within minutes of our arrival, the most unearthly blue began diffusing through the water. Its cerulean glow bathed our faces and the grotto’s walls, and the cave entrance became a mere pinprick of white light.

Sherlock smiled a little at my obvious rapture. “The vivid blue is the result of—“

“The light coming through two holes, the second further underwater in the front wall of the cave,” I finished for him.

“Just so,” he nodded, unoffended by my interruption.

I couldn’t resist dipping my hand into the water, and I laughed in surprise, both at the chill of the sea and the ethereal glow of my skin under the surface.

Maybe I’m not remembering it correctly, but I believe that Stern Sherlock grinned as he watched me.

We didn’t speak for several minutes, as my gaze darted around, trying to take in as much as possible.  But eventually, my companion broke the silence.

“You spoke of your desire to bottle memories.”

“Yes.”

“Like this one?” he asked, studying his hands on the ends of the oars.

Though I still blushed at my own, prior honesty, I nodded. “Like this one, yes.”

“I am relieved that memories are easily deleted. That they and the sensations evoked by them are fleeting things.”

Though I felt the embarrassment over something so obviously aimed at my fanciful ponderings, I managed not to blanch. “Why?”

He looked around us, the blue ripples of the water making his silvery eyes flash turquoise. “I brought my wife here once. On our honeymoon, in fact.”

“Oh?” I could hardly make sound escape beyond a harsh whisper.

Sherlock nodded. “I brought Irene here. But I look at the water and do not see her jumping into it, though she did. She said that she hoped to find the fabled statuary at the bottom of the sea floor. Ridiculous, of course, as the water 150 meters deep, and she knew it. She wanted me to react accordingly.”

An icy heat suffused my chest.  _Why did I come?_  I asked myself. But then I reminded myself that I had absolutely no reason to suspect why he’d bring me along to a place of such intimate recollection.  I swallowed the sudden burning in my throat, forcing my composure to hold steady. “You said ‘deleted.’”

“Hmm?” he asked, turning his gaze back to me. “What?”

“You said you were glad memories could easily be deleted, but you’re recalling what she did when you were here. Clearly you’ve not forgotten. It must be a cherished thing, indeed.”

He dropped a hand into the water, mirroring mine, though my arm now hung limply over the boat edge, no longer dancing through the cool ripples. “And yet, I feel nothing of it. No nostalgia, no melancholy,” he explained.

Unable to quell my misery, I was startled by the volume of my voice. “Why did I have to be her for that? What was the point of this?”

Though he was as cool as ever, I thought I caught a flash of surprise in his expression. “You want the answers to both questions: I wanted your company. I think better if I have someone to talk to. And to the second, it was to test myself,” he said simply, like the answer should be obvious.

The water was now achingly cold. I could feel it seeping through my skin and tendons and into my bones. “And you want that? You want to forget a happy memory with a woman who is now dead?”

“Yes. What do  _you_  want?” he asked instead of offering any defense for himself.

I dried my chilled hand on my skirt and huddled into myself, scrubbing at my face lest any tears escape. “You’re saying such horrible things. I want to go home,” I managed.

He nodded wordlessly, his face immovable.

As I lay back so we could pass back through the mouth of the cave, the tears I’d fought so valiantly fell. They dripped down my temples and into my hair. I watched the rope pass overhead once more.

 Once we’d maneuvered back out of the cave, we bobbed on the waves, though Sherlock made no move to take up the oars again.  Stubbornly, I refused to return my hands to my face. My pride would not allow it, and although Sherlock was seated right before me, I pretended he couldn’t see my distress. Foolish, since I’d made no secret of it in voicing my desire to leave the damnable cave. But I stared at my hands in my lap and felt more tears fall to the lace collar of my blouse.

It was only the boat’s wobbling that pulled me from my study. I looked up to see Sherlock carefully edging over to me, gripping both sides of the boat. When he reached me, he knelt in front of me, staring at me like I was something to be puzzled out. I shivered under his scrutiny but defiantly met his gaze.

Wordlessly, he shrugged out of his coat and wrapped it around me in turn. Moving his hands to the lapels, he tugged me forward and brushed a soft, burning kiss to my cheek, the fullness of his lower lip brushing the corner of my mouth.

He did no acknowledge my stunned reaction, choosing instead to murmur my name thoughtfully before slouching back over to his seat in the boat. As he began to row, I heard his voice carry across creaking wood and splashing water.

“Forgive me.”

* * *

Drained, I stepped onto the lift for the first time since my arrival at the hotel. Dispassionately, I watched faint hints of floors pass through the gate while the lift pulled me high up into the hotel, and further away from Sherlock Holmes with each clank of the levers and counterweights that operated my conveyance.

I stood in front of the front door to Ms. Prince’s suite of rooms, debating with myself over whether I’d return downstairs to dine or simply crawl into bed and subsist on my misery.  Although I somehow had made it upstairs without returning Sherlock’s coat to him, I decided he would have to wait to get his precious outerwear until tomorrow. My mind made up, I let myself into the sitting room.

The suite was silent. This was not unusual, but I did spare a bit of surprise that Ms. Prince’s nurse hadn’t hurried out when I arrived. When I quietly called out her name, I received no response.

I passed quietly through the lounge, suddenly ill at east, though I did not let that stop me from my pushing on the door latch into Ms. Prince’s bedroom. I told myself that it was possible the caretaker was sleeping, though she’d yet to do so before that day.

The bedroom was dim and stuffy, smelling of illness and little fresh air. Though electricity ran to all rooms in our suite, the nurse had elected to use oil lamps for light, and the lone flame on the basin stand had nearly run its course of oil. Though it was dark, I could clearly see only one figure in the room: that of Ms. Prince.

I glanced over my shoulder, calling for the nurse once more before going further into the room, hoping to assess if there was any improvement in the poorly patient.

When I was a small child, I took a tumble off of a low garden wall while I was out for a walk with my parents. The impact zinged through me, out the top of my head, and with it went my breath. My mouth worked helplessly as I tried to refill my lungs. Finally the air came back, but I remained stunned, oblivious to my parents’ cooing concern.

This was what it felt like when I looked down at the woman on the bed. There was no improvement. In fact, she was as far from ‘improved’ as possible.

Connie Prince was dead. 

* * *

**...**

* * *


	4. The Business of Going Away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who has given given kudos to, subscribed to, and reviewed this story so far. I know it might seem like an exercise in patience, but I hope you all like this chapter and feel like it in some small way makes up for the long wait. Thank you for continuing to read it!
> 
> Special thanks to dietplainlite, the story's inceptor, for her support, and to Lexie for just being lovely.

**Chapter 4: The Business of Going Away**

* * *

 

The deaths of my parents and grandmother had been too close for me to feel anything but ardent grief.  Prior to that, I'd not been touched by any great loss. My other grandparents had all died before my birth, and I had lived a fairly isolated life, so the passings of acquaintances were few and far between.

Connie Prince's death was different.

In the days that followed her demise, I would remember time and again that, beyond my initial shocked reaction, I wasn't overwrought or traumatized, or any other 'proper' response. Of course I felt stabs of sadness and pity; while she and I certainly weren’t close, she had taken me into her employ when I was at dire straights. She had been a rather ridiculous person at times, but she was not a bad one. She hadn't deserved the death that came to her.

And that is where my secret shame came in. On discovering her body, after I'd regained my wits and hurried out into the hallway, flagging down a passing maid and asking her to have the hotel staff send for a doctor, I tried to tamp it down. Unsuccessfully. Because while I was also preoccupied with what Ms. Prince’s death meant for me, a large part of me felt... curious.

Other than being with my mother and father as they took their last breaths, and then seeing them and my grandmother at their respective wakes, I’d had little reason to be around dead bodies, and certainly not _in situ._ But, oh, had the curiosity burned a me. My practical mother and father had never shied away from the topic of death. They accepted it as a reality for all of us, and made sure I felt the same way and wasn’t frightened of its impending arrival; that it was just another puzzle of life itself.

Though, it is probable that they didn’t mean that death was a puzzle that needed to be solved by _me._

From what I had furtively read in medical libraries and my own father's study, I knew a little of what to observe on Ms. Prince's body, and I thought back on what I had seen in the scant minutes before I called for assistance. Her waxy skin, the beginnings of lividity, the muscles that had yet to tighten in rigor. All indicated that she had only been dead a short time when I found her. 

While I waited, I tried not to dwell on these things, lest I decide I needed further study. I sat in the front lounge and forced myself not to stare into the shadowed bedroom beyond it. The only way I was able to dissuade myself from returning was the reminder that it would be a bit unprofessional for me to scrutinize the corpse of my employer. In fact, Ms. Prince, a spotty Christmas and Easter church attendee, would probably cross herself if she knew that I was even tempted. So, instead, I squirmed in my seat and picked at invisible threads on my skirt. A wave of relief washed over me when a knock sounded on the suite's front door. Not sparing a thought that this knock had come mere minutes after I had requested a doctor, I hurried over to open it, grateful that the his arrival should quell my temptation.

But it wasn't a doctor who waited at the threshold.

“Sherlock!” I exclaimed, blinking at the strange collision of the demarcated moments of my day.

He greeted me briskly, showing nothing of the rather unsettled way that we’d left each other’s company a mere fifteen minutes earlier. “Sorry to bother you and your party right before the dinner hour, but I realized I never retrieved my coat from you. I am going to be dining out and need it. Good God, this floor is dilapidated.”

I felt disjointed, having briefly forgotten about the very existence of Sherlock Holmes until he’d reappeared before me. I opened my mouth and then closed it, at a loss for what to say or how to say it.

He was initially oblivious. It was only when he was commenting on the state of the Aubusson runner in the hallway (leading to something to do with a thieving bellhop and the ivory trade), that he suddenly paused mid-stream. Slowly, he scanned the suite’s lounge behind me, picking up enough to meet my eyes again and demand, “What happened?”

“Ms. Prince has died,” I said simply. Not that Sherlock would need any sort gentle segue into the hard truth. Somehow, I doubted saying, “Ms. Prince has gone to the angels,” would be greeted with any sort of patience. He’d probably ask me if ‘angels’ was a euphemism for the loo.

“When? Now? Were you with her?”

I shook my head, regrouping slightly. “I believe it was nearly an hour ago. I’ve requested someone fetch the doctor, but I didn’t feel right leaving the suite. I’d hate to alarm some poor soul doing turndown service.”

Sherlock snorted a small laugh, likely picturing it, only remembering himself when I shot him a quelling look. Clearing his throat, he said, “Sorry. Please show me.”

Even as I led him through the lounge, I thought that I should probably be asking him why he needed to see Constance Prince’s body. Was he being ghoulish, or did he have a reason? Instead, I kept quiet and ushered him into the bedroom.

Because, damned though I might be for it, I wanted to see again, too. My brain wanted to make sense of it.

By the time we reached the room and I’d flicked on the overhead light, he had his magnifying glass in hand, and he ran his comically enlarged eye over first Ms. Prince’s corpse and then the bedside table and tea tray. He picked up a half-empty glass of water and sniffed it, pulled a small face, and then returned it to the table. Turning back to the body and lifting her hand, he frowned at the nail beds and flipped it over to study her palm.

“You said she’d been sick for some time. Do you remember when exactly she fell ill?” he asked.

I nodded. “Two weeks ago yesterday.”

“And she never showed any improvement?”

“No, she only declined. I tried to discuss it with Doctor Forelli, the on-call practioner, telling him that I thought he needed to reexamine her, but he… disagreed.”

Sherlock looked up, straightening away from the body in mildly curiosity. “You hesitated. Why did you hesitate?”

I glanced down at the floor, blushing a little under his scrutiny. “The doctor said that my input was neither needed nor appreciated.”

“And you didn’t correct him or tell him to shove off?”

Fiddling with the cuff of my blouse—a nervous habit that presented itself often in Sherlock’s presence—I shook my head. “I have no medical training. All I know is what I’ve read. Little ground to tell a trained doctor where he’s mistaken. Or when to ‘shove off.’”

Sherlock waved away my slight sarcasm. “If you don’t demand respect, then people like Dr. Forelli will assume it’s not needed and pay you accordingly.”

“Easily said if you’re a man and you’ve established yourself. A young woman with armchair knowledge is hardly an authority.”

“It’s only easy if the majority of people don’t want to chin you,” Sherlock disagreed. His sardonic expression spoke volumes of what it must have been like for him, navigating the choppy waters of a society he could hardly stomach.  “You should have insisted.”

I smiled slightly, pleased that Sherlock felt I was worthy of demanding respect and consideration, even regarding something in which I felt so poorly versed.

He returned his line of questions to the matter-at-hand. “You said you believe the Dearly Departed has been dead for an hour. Tell me why.”

Confidence bolstered, I worked my way through the list of symptoms that I’d observed.

Rather than agree or refute, Sherlock made a small noise of acknowledgment and went back to studying Ms. Prince’s hands and hairline. “These scabs: how long has she had them?” He pointed to a smattering of sores on Ms. Prince’s face and on the backs of her fingers.

“She said it was psoriasis. She developed it two months ago. That’s why we’re here.  She thought some sun would be good for her.” Sherlock shook his head. “What?” I demanded. Something wasn’t sitting right with him.

“This doesn’t look like psoriasis.”

“Then what does it look like?”

His eyes met mine across the body. “Arsenic poisoning.”

“Really? But how would she have been exposed?”

He made a noncommittal sound and turned away from Ms. Prince, his eyes darting around the room. When they landed on the small vanity in the corner, his air was suddenly triumphant.

“What do you see?” I prompted.

Hurrying over to the wood table, he brandished a container of face powder and some lipstick. “Cosmetics still sometimes contain arsenic in them. There has been quite a bit of government oversight in the matter in recent years, and it’s rare for death to occur as a result.”

“But Ms. Prince was one of those rare cases?”

He frowned, looking for all the world like he was pained as his brain tried to work through the evidence before him. “There’re too many sores on the body for this to be mild exposure. She would have gotten sick, to be sure, but at this level? No, something else was interfering. Who sold her these cosmetics?”

“No one. Raoul, her majordomo, makes them for her.”

Sherlock pressed, “Raoul?”

I nodded. “Raoul de Santos. He didn’t come with us on this trip. He remained behind to attend to Ms. Prince’s brother, Kenneth.”

“And how would you describe their relationship?”

“Whose? Ms. Prince and Raoul’s?”

He made an impatient gesture. “Who else’s?”

I shrugged, a little stung by his tone. “I only asked because Kenneth and Raoul are… well, they’re… _close._ But Connie and Ra—“

“Wait. Stop. Kenneth and Raoul are close? How so?” He slowly approached me, and I nearly backed away from his intensity.

“In a way that would have them arrested if it were discovered.”

“Ah,” Sherlock said quietly, looking almost alarmingly gleeful now. “So I’d like to change my question. How would you describe Constance Prince’s relationship with Kenneth?”

I bit my lip, thinking back on terse arguments and snide remarks bandied over the supper table. “Not easy,” I finally admitted. “They argued often. Ms. Prince felt her brother was a ne’er-do-well and a wastrel. She said that Kenneth would spend all of their father’s money and then some.”

“And what did Raoul have to say about this?”

I laughed a little mirthlessly. “I doubt Ms. Prince would have known. He’d have been sacked immediately if he’d spoken out of turn to her.”

“Then what was your _impression_ of how Raoul felt?”

I shrugged as I admitted, “He resented her for it. But he never would have left Kenneth.” And then something struck me. “Sherlock.” He hummed in acknowledgment, though he’d turned away and was too busy uncapping and sniffing the myriad of beauty products on the vanity.  “Raoul also prepared Ms. Prince’s ‘psoriasis’ treatments. She refused to use the tar coats, so he made her an ointment. Didn’t older treatments contain arsenic?”

At this, he did set down the bottle of perfume that he’d been peering into, and he turned, smiling slowly once more. “Connie Prince developed sores from her makeup. Raoul de Santos told her it was just psoriasis, and gave her a salve. She applied it and more make up. The sores only worsened, so she applied more salve. She was poisoning herself more and more each step of the way.” He actually grinned. “Helpful of her.”

I felt somewhat chagrinned to be so impressed by the morbidity of it all, but I had to admit, as far as murders went, it was certainly more inventive than a run-of-the-mill stabbing. “What do we do now?” I asked him.

“I’ll wire a friend of mine at Scotland Yard and suggest he go have a conversation with Raoul de Santos and Kenneth Prince.” And then the full brunt of this gaze was on me once more. He studied me silently, biting this lip. He seemed almost hesitant as he started to speak again. “As for you—“ A knock sounded on the door, interrupting him.

Giving Sherlock an apologetic look, I hurried out into the lounge. A somber Dr. Forelli awaited entry into the rooms. Two other, dour looking men followed him, and all three genuflected when they reached the bedroom’s threshold. Sherlock, who’d not moved from the vanity, rolled his eyes at them, but they were too focused on the body to notice him.

“The poor Signora must have taken a sudden turn for the worse in the night,” the doctor said regretfully to his companions. “Who could have known a seemingly minor stomach complaint could be so grave?”

Sherlock scoffed loudly, drawing all eyes to him. “She didn’t ‘take a turn,’” he mimicked the doctor’s accent. “She was dying the entire time she was in your care.”

“Who are you?” Forelli demanded.

“He’s a family friend,” I rushed to intervene. “I called him up to keep me company while I waited for you.”

“Someone had to determine what killed her,” Sherlock said, shrugging with false modesty. “Of course, if you’d listened to the young lady, there’s a chance your ‘patient’ would still be alive now, instead of dead by poisoning.”

From what he and I had discussed regarding Ms. Prince’s continued exposure to the poison, this seemed like a stretch. That said, I appreciated his championing me all the same.

Forelli was stewing, his face turning a deep plum color. “I do not know what you speak of, but your services are no longer needed here.”

Sherlock sighed with feigned regret. “Very well. I will leave you to whatever excuses will help you sleep at night. See to it that the body is cared for and not damaged when it is returned to England.” And then, turning to me, he sketched a slight bow. “I will speak to you later on.”

And with that, he swanned from the room, a slight smirk still tilting his lips.

…

Even as I watched the draped figure of Ms. Prince wheeled out of the hotel, I wasn’t sure I was seeing something real.  I was a morass of conflicting feelings. There was a touch of sadness that she’d died an unpleasant death; while she was a bit of a biddy, I had still felt affection for her. Then there was the desperation and uncertainty for what her death meant for me. And on top of those latter feelings landed a healthy dollop of guilt from how much I’d enjoyed helping Sherlock with his impromptu inquiry. How could I even concern myself with such matters when a woman was dead well before her time?

I told myself to stop worrying for myself until later, to allow myself time to process what had happened.

But I couldn’t fight it as the undertaker’s automobile doors closed behind the shrouded corpse. I vaguely noticed that the sky had darkened to a swelling, black-blue and the sea swells were now white-capped. That didn’t stop me from turning and making my way down the walk as I fought down greasy panic.

I had few resources beyond the little pocket money Ms. Prince gave me as a stipend. My pay had primarily been the room and board she provided me.  Mentally, I began mapping my options, though I knew there were telegrams I needed to be sending and other arrangements that required my organization.

Still, I walked down the path, looking down the cliff side to the water below, barely bothering to keep my skirts from whipping up in the ever-increasing wind. I didn’t weep, though I did feel a pervasive sadness for the whole of it. And with it was a strange, panging loneliness in my heart. Because I knew I was about to leave Capri. About to leave….

A voice carrying on the wind reached me not long after I’d set off down the pavement. I turned to find Sherlock hurrying towards me. He called my name again, though he saw that I’d heard him. I stood still, waiting for him to reach me. He’d taken time to put on his overcoat, but the wind tossed his hair about with not hat to hold his curls down.

“I’ve sent a telegram to Scotland Yard. My contact, Detective Inspector Lestrade, will shortly bring de Santos in for questioning, I am sure,” he said stiffly, standing with his hands folded neatly in front of him. Something had changed his mood from the cocksure man who’d so recently left Ms. Prince’s suite.

 _He knows this is it, too,_ a voice whispered in my head. But I shrugged it away. I couldn’t flatter myself with such flights of fancy. I could only try to adopt a less gauche attitude. Not let him know how much this hurt.

“Thank you for your help, Mr. Holmes,” I replied, willing my voice to be steady.

His brow winged up. “Back to my formal name, I see.”

I shrugged and stared down at my hands. I’d forgotten my gloves, I noticed distractedly. “I am afraid this is the end. After today, I must leave Capri. I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, truly.” He rolled his eyes, but I pressed on. “And I thank you for your friendship. I’ve had a lovely time. It’s just….”

“You can’t stay. Ms. Prince was your employer and sole-source of income,” he supplied.

Nodding miserably, I met his eyes, wanting him to see my sincerity, and perhaps he would understand more than I could articulate. “I’ll need to return to London with Ms. Prince’s body, and then make other arrangements for myself once there. I have some distant relations in America whom I will need to contact. So I believe this is goodbye.”

He was quiet for a long moment. I waited expectantly, hoping he’d return my farewell if not my fond words. But he only stared at me until I started to raise my hand in a feeble wave.

And then he spoke.  “It doesn’t have to be.”

“What?”

“It doesn’t have to be goodbye.” His face was its usual, austere mask, but I thought I detected a twitch in his cheek. I couldn’t interpret its meaning, however.

“What do you mean?” I asked again.

“Come with me.” He almost looked as surprised as I felt by the words escaping.  They hung heavily between us as I looked at him, feeling adrift. Yet, my heart started to beat in an odd throb, making that earlier, lonely pang more apparent as it beat in counterpoint to a new, strange hope.

I suddenly had to look away. Though he’d been witness than more than a little of my damnable vulnerability already, I couldn’t stand for him to see any earnest spark of relief, in case he was merely offering me a lift to the ferry. I still had my pride. “Come with you?” I parroted.

“To Briarvale. Come with me to my home.”

“Y—you need an assistant?” I asked, shifting from foot to foot as I tried to cast about for a response. “I have little experience with crime solving, though I imagine I could learn quickly. Or is it a bookkeeper you need? I thought you said you have a man of business. ”

His pained sigh was not even remotely flattering. “I’m not asking you to be my assistant. I’m asking you to marry me, you fool.”

“I’m not a fool,” I defended, unable to process much beyond the insult. “How was I to know what you meant? We were just discussing my loss of employment. Going from that to marriage was not an intuitive leap.”

He strode away, tugging at his hair. I was left blinking in his wake, unsure of what had just happened and feeling a bit bereft for it. But then he came back to me just as quickly, this time reaching for me. The rough pads of his fingers sent little shocks through me when his hands cupped my face. He stroked at wild strands of my hair only for the gale to blow them back.

“Then let me explain myself,” he said lowly, his voice burning. “I wish for you to marry me. I don’t want you to go to America or even London, for that matter. I want you to come with me to Briarvale and I want you to be my wife.”

Before I could respond, he pulled me to him and pressed his lips to mine. The kiss was a desperate one. The force of the wind had robbed any chance of a deep breath from me, and his proposal and mouth stole what little I had left.  Without being conscious of it, I rose up onto my toes to reach him more easily. I could feel his arms come around me, pulling me bodily to him until we were pressed fully together. And suddenly, I was oblivious to the brewing storm. Suddenly, all I knew was him. His mouth was warm but brutal, and I felt its heat in the pit of my belly, leaving me weak and strong in equal measures.

Finally, he broke away and looked at me, his normally light eyes dark pools as he fought to regain himself.

It was madness. He and I had known each other for three, short weeks. Yes, we’d spent a huge swathe of that time together, but to consider that grounds for marriage? My answer should have been a firm, resounding ‘No,’ perhaps with an offer to exchange letters so we might get to know one another better, followed by a careful period of assessment.

He said nothing as he waited for me. He didn’t say why he wanted me to marry him. He did not rhapsodize about my virtues or even provide a list of reasons of how it would be a good idea. Perhaps, like me, he wasn’t sure it _would be_ a good idea.

Perhaps, like me, he did not care.

So, when he ended our kiss, he pulled in a few gasps of breath, and pressed my face into the curve of his neck. I felt, more than heard, his voice. “Will you? Will you marry me?”

The wind pulled at us, the sea sounded its roar, and I pressed my lips to his throat so he could feel my answer.

“I will.” 


End file.
